


Dragon Age: Revolution

by LittleAprilFlowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/M, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tevinter Imperium, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris returns to Tevinter as the country tears itself apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is it, guys. I'm really doing it. I'm going to dedicate myself to an actual mulit-chapter fic. No ifs, no buts. Well, there might be butts. I'm letting this thing grow organically around the loose framework of a plot I have planned, so we will see.
> 
> I am dedicating this to my lovely friends, who tolerate my nerdy outbursts. I dedicate it to the fans of Dragon Age whom I have met, in real life or online, and those I have yet to meet. I hope you enjoy my attempt to fill in the gap between here and Dragon Age 4, whenever it rears its no doubt magnificent head.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris receives a mysterious letter.

It is a night like any other for Fenris, as he sits alone in his rented room above a tavern in Hasmal. He finds himself admitting that he’s starting to like Nevarra, having crossed the border from the Marches in pursuit of a particularly nasty group of slavers he had been pursuing from the eastern coast. The trail lead him here, and he’d disposed of them and released their captives with as much help as he could offer, yet he had remained in the last two weeks when he would otherwise move on swiftly. Before now it felt like he hadn't stopped at all, not since Kirkwall. Being abandoned in the Deep Roads, the brutal Qunari invasion, the chaos after the explosion at the Chantry, templars and the mages fighting in the streets, the final battle with Meredith; all of it echoing around in his head in an unnerving tapestry of death and destruction.

Fenris sighs, and reaches for his pack at the foot of his bed to rummage until he finds a small wooden box, left without decoration or embellishment. It is simple, and holds the few things Fenris considers precious in his life. It contains a few trinkets he had received from the grateful liberated of the slavers he’d killed, those he kept almost guiltily when his protestations wouldn’t be heard. There are odd pieces of paper with the practicing of his own writing on them, along with a quill and inkwell gifted to him by Varric, and letters from the dwarf from their correspondences over the last few years.

At the bottom of the box is a red frayed cloth. This is the item Fenris seeks. With a reverence one would use when handling glass, he lifts it from the other objects in the box and holds it in one hand as he sets the box down. Both hands then clasp the fabric as he stares at the red strip, still vibrant in colour after so many years of wear and tear. It has been stained with blood and sweat and rain, and countless other things, but Fenris wore Hawke’s favour on his wrist for many years, ever since the night they spent together. Perhaps if he had apologised, if he had explained more, or been less of a coward… 

He banishes those thoughts almost as soon as they take form in his mind. It is far too late to dwell on such things now. Hawke was far away - he was headed for Weisshaupt in the Anderfels the last time Varric had heard from him, to speak with the Wardens about what happened at Adamant with Corypheus. That was a little over four years ago now by Fenris’ estimate, with no word since. The Wardens themselves were strangely rare these days. But then they are and have always been a secretive order, hidden away between Blights, and it would be odd for that to change now. Yet Fenris worried. There had been whispers, faint but persistent, of some conflict within the ranks of the Wardens. It’s likely Hawke stepped in and tried to fix everything and therefore got himself caught up in the mess they’d made. That seemed like something he would do. Fenris huffs and grants himself the amusement of picturing Hawke doing what he normally did best, solving the problems of others no matter what. 

A knock at the door startles him. Fenris glances at his greatsword propped against the wall nearby, and checks he still has a dagger hidden in the folds of his clothes, before rising from his bed and going to see who wants him at such an odd hour. Opening the door reveals a young woman dressed in the clothes of a messenger. She nods respectfully and speaks in a distinct Orlesian accent. 

“A letter for you, messere.” she says, “Very urgent. The sender insists you reply as soon as possible.” 

Fenris pays the woman a few silvers which she gratefully accepts before informing him she will wait outside. Confused by this but unwilling to argue her cause just yet, Fenris locks the door and returns to sit once more on the bed. He very carefully opens the scroll, breaking the unremarkable black seal of wax on the paper to do so. Though he struggles with the odd word, the handwriting of the letter seems to be set out in order to make it as easy to read as possible, with the ink set deep into the page by a quill used firmly and carefully.

_Fenris,_

_I understand you are in need of work. No doubt your efforts against the evils of slavery are well appreciated by many freed citizens of Thedas, but I expect it does not offer much in the way of coin to sustain even your simple lifestyle. My intent is that I can pay you quite handsomely, and also allow you to continue your good work. Varric has told me you have experienced firsthand the dark things that many citizens of Tevinter would rather hide from the light of day. We want reform in our homeland, but to do it, we need support. We also need to know we can actively protest against our fellows whilst safe from any attempts to silence us. I write to you hoping that I might employ you as a bodyguard for myself and for other key members of our society, the Lucerni._

_Burn this letter once you have read it. If you wish to decline my offer, send the messenger back to me with parchment bearing the words ‘Vitae benefaria’, and you will not hear from me again. However, should you accept, respond with the words ‘Na via lerno victoria’._

_I look forward to your response, and wish you good health and fortune regardless of the decision you make,_

_Maevaris Tilani_

Tilani. He knows that name. A family of magisters in Tevinter, but one Fenris only heard whispers about in his time as a slave. There had been an Athanir Tilani in the Magisterium, as best as he could recall, and some scandal involving his heir. Presumably that would be this Maevaris who had written to him. Athanir had been assassinated, hadn’t he? That would make Maevaris a magister, and Fenris held no desire in him to work in aid of magisters even if they could give him all the gold and luxury in Thedas.

Yet he cannot deny that his curiosity has been piqued. A group trying to bring about change in Tevinter would of course face opposition even with whispers of dissent. With at least one magister among them, they might hold some political power, but it brought great risk along with its potential influence.

Fenris glances around the room, his eyes settling on the candle which lights the space. He rises from the bed and burns the letter as instructed, and then goes back for the box and the writing set inside it. In his messy scrawl, taking time to make it as legible as he can, he writes his response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (taken from the Dragon Age wiki):  
> Vitae benefaria - Goodbye, respectfully  
> Na via lerno victoria - “Only the living know victory”.
> 
> None of the canon characters or indeed the universe of Dragon Age itself belong to me.


	2. Bail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is home at last, and has been for a while, though settling back into life in Tevinter isn't easy. He and Maevaris have a lot to do if they hope to bring any real change into a nation which is already tearing itself apart. But Mae has enlisted the help of someone she thinks could bring a new voice to their campaign - and also keep them safe from assassins and magekillers.

Tucking the few errant strands of hair behind his ears as he checks himself in the mirror, Dorian mentally prepares himself for another no doubt exhausting day. Ever since he had inherited the position of magister from his late father, his life had been agonisingly tiring. True, Tevinter wasn't going to change in a day, and he'd started out knowing that. But bringing a nation to the brink of civil war hadn't entirely been what he or the others had wanted either.

With a hint of distaste, he notes that there are a few streaks of rebel grey in his dark hair, and the black kohl around his eyes draws meagre attention away from the shadows beneath them. Was the battle with Corypheus only four years ago? Already it feels like a lifetime has passed since he fought at the Inquisitor’s side, sharing in his adventures. Dorian had prepared himself to see and experience all kinds of new things when he had headed south at news of the Breach, but the discovery of love was something he never could have predicted. And now the man he had given his heart to was on the other side of the world, connected only by inked words on parchment and a crystal that did not always work as desired.

At a knock on the bedroom door, Dorian rises from the chair at his vanity and turns.

"It's open." he calls, knowing who is there without having to ask.

His mother Aquinea enters. Her posture is faultlessly regal, befitting the wife – now widow - of a Tevinter magister. Even in the privacy of her home she stands perfectly upright; Dorian is almost a foot taller than her now and yet she still manages to make him feel like a small boy standing at her waist height.

"Good morning, Mother." Dorian greets her, bowing a little with respect. Aquinea crosses to him, and reaches out to take the long braid of hair hanging over his shoulder in her hand to caresses it as she speaks.

"Good morning, my son." she replies, mostly toneless, "Did you sleep well?"

Her reply is delayed as her attention is drawn - as it always is - to the mourning band of black wrapped around Dorian's upper arm, which contrasts so distinctly with his brightly coloured robes. He wears it whenever he leaves the house as is custom following the death of a family member. He’s worn it every day that he has been in the country.

"No. There was some creature warbling out in the garden all night, and I could not get a moment of proper rest. This house never feels like home, you know, not like Qarinus."

"You'll be returning there soon then?"

"Yes. It will be dreadfully boring without your company, I’m sure." she notes, her lips twitching in a rare smile of amusement that brings a little warmth to the conversation. Dorian inherited his sense of humour from her, though she seldom expresses it these days. She releases his hair and then smooths her hands over his shoulders, tidying his already immaculate robes, almost remembering a time when their relationship had been more tender.

But Aquinea quickly drops her hands. Dorian is an adult now. He has Halward’s position in the Magisterium to keep him occupied, and diplomatic and strategic work always on his mind. Gone is the cheeky little lad with near constantly burned hands and messy hair. Yet she still sometimes sees that lingering boyish glint in her son’s eyes – when he laughs freely at parties, when he wins an argument, and when he smiles down at the crystal glowing in his hands that carries the voice of a friend to him from the south.

“You had better be going or you’ll be late.” she says, and once more her voice is firm. “I doubt your Lucerni will have any luck making a stand with only one prominent magister at its head.”

“Maevaris practically leads on her own, Mother. I’m just there to look pretty.”

 

***

 

It can be a little intimidating to stand before the Magisterium with all eyes focused on you. But Maevaris was well accustomed to intimidation at this point, from being shouted down in debates such as these to receiving actual death threats. For any other magister this would not be a cause for concern, as such threats were not uncommon should a particularly outspoken person choose to express their controversial opinion. But Mae had lost her father to such threats coming to fruition, to the templars, just as the assassins had come for Halward Pavus. It was not something she took as lightly as some might anymore.

“If we have heard it once, we have heard it a thousand times from you and your rabble.” An elderly magister accuses just as the protestations and muttering begins to die down again, “This Lucerni of yours have done nothing but cause dissent and unrest all over Tevinter. You know full well that the Archon himself does not condone your actions, let alone anyone here with some sense in their mind. And with enough trouble in our country as it is—“

“This is a space of discussion, Sentius. We only wish to discuss issues in our nation and their possible solutions, in order to keep her whole in this fragmented time.” Maevaris counters calmly, as the magister she speaks in response to begins to wobble indignantly from his chin to his shoulders. More murmurings from the gathered altus in the amphitheatre of the Magisterium echo around the halls, next to none in favour of Maevaris and her supporters. But then, of course, this is nothing new.

“I only ask that you take us seriously.” she concludes, raising her voice just slightly. Dorian flinches, knowing it was a request which shall be shot down immediately, as it has been countless times before this one.

“As a threat?”

“As a vessel of change, my friends.” Maevaris insists, “The Lucerni as a group want to bring about a new beginning. We want to end the mistrust between us and other nations of Thedas, to liberate the oppressed in our own homes and cities, and to show the world that Tevinter is as glorious and powerful as we have ever been. Already we have aided in efforts to raise money for our Circles with help from those like Magister Astraeus. We were a core instrument in the condemnation and consequent trials of the Venatori, following the actions of the Inquisition in the south. The Archon himself has in fact applauded—“

“Enough!” a woman bellows, her voice strong enough to silence every soul present before she rises from her seat and glares down at Maevaris on the stand below her, “Your insidious little group have had your time. Your hour is up. We will consider what you have said, as ever, and we will reach a conclusion in the appropriate time. You are dismissed.”

As much as the thought tempts her, Maevaris would dare not argue with Acilia Lar. Her protests would only fall on even more deaf ears as the older woman’s satisfied smirk proves only too well. With a final nod, Maevaris bows to the gathered magisters, though bile rises in her throat. Dorian’s hand on her arm leads her to turn and they leave the amphitheatre with their few supporters in silence. One defeat in a line of many, and they would be fools to hope for it to be the last, but some are starting to listen to them, albeit quietly. Change is coming, as much as the weight of its fruition might pain all those who attempt to bear it.

 

***

 

“Well, that certainly could have been worse.” Dorian sighs, as both he and Maevaris sit in the shade of a veranda, observing the unimaginable variety of people who pass them as they go about their business through the market district of Minrathous. Countless stalls sell wares from all over the continent in a rainbow of colour and scents, rivalling the grandeur of Val Royeaux. One young woman sells flowers from a basket as she slips through crowds with practiced ease. An elderly bearded dwarf trades goods he claims to be direct from the capital of Orzammar. An elven lad, visibly no older than twelve, begs on a corner, his crooked leg bound in rags and his coin dish bearing only a few dull coins. Pleasant lute music spills from the open door of a tavern, accompanied by a soft singing voice praising the Maker and Andraste.

The weather is kind today, and has been for a few weeks now. Whereas most summers in Tevinter could be harshly hot, the hours now pass in a hazy warmth, with intermissions of refreshing rain almost exactly when the land needed it most. Despite the idyllic setting, however, all is not well in the northern nation. The Qunari had renewed their attacks on the borders under their new Arishok. Agents of the Qun revealed themselves in major settlements, causing uprisings and skirmishes which became less uncommon by the day. Elves disappear daily from the streets of cities and towns, their destination unknown. Lingering Venatori units, continued scorn and mistrust from the south, and countless other elements mounted against Tevinter, as the once-great country fought itself on top of everything else.

“I had hoped they might listen.” Maevaris admits, hiding her bitterness with a feigned sigh of resignation. Dorian knows her better than that. This will not be the end, not by a long shot.

“There’s always tomorrow.” he says.

“Or the day after that.”

“Or the one after that.”

They chuckle, and Dorian lifts his wine to sip from the glass as Maevaris picks at the pastries on the dish between them. Birds gather hopefully only a few feet away, eyeing the treat in her hands. The flower girl is gone from the crowds, but the crippled elven boy remains, though no more coins have been given out of pity to him.

“Any new word from your contact?” Dorian inquiries after a few moments of contemplation, voices of peddlers and citizens echoing through the marketplace around them.

Mae shakes her head. “He wrote back. I have heard nothing else.”

It is at that moment a messenger – a young dwarven woman bearing a brooch of the Tilani house – approaches the table and bows to Maevaris. “Message for you, from the city guard, milady.” she says, and Maevaris and Dorian exchange a look. Maevaris smiles knowingly. Speak of a devil, and he may appear. Perhaps the Maker has a sense of humour after all.

“What is this message?”

“There’s been an elf arrested, though he put up a fight, they said. Killed two guards and injured a third before they got him in.” the messenger continues, “They asked if he had anyone in the city to represent him, and he gave your name, milady.”

Maevaris stands, and reaches into one of many pouches on her person to hand Dorian a few silvers for the bill. “Meet me at the Magisterium later today. And try to think about the least offending way to introduce yourself, hmm?”

 

***

 

“Sorry to trouble you, but he did say—“

“It’s quite alright.” a voice cuts the guard off, and the captive inside the cell lifts his head to see the possessor of the voice. Dressed splendidly from head to foot in blue robes which make her eyes shine like sapphires, the woman grins as she examines him.

This must be her, he ponders. She appears too kind for a magister. But he knew well enough by now that looks could be deceiving, and that Tevinter is a nest of snakes paling the petty Orlesian Game in comparison.

“I take it you are Fenris?” the woman asks. Her tone is calm and curious, no hint of a demand in her voice.

“You are Maevaris Tilani?” he replies.

She nods. Seemingly reason enough for his release, the guard steps forward to unlock the cell, and Fenris stands from the filthy cot he had been sat upon. He extends his arms for the enchanted shackles on his wrists to be removed, but the guard does not even dare to touch them until after another confirming nod from the magister behind him.

Fenris massages his wrists before meeting the gaze of his liberator. “Varric recommended me to you?”

“He ensured me you were the one for the job at hand.”

Fenris shakes his head and tuts. “That dwarf owes me an apology at least. I swore I’d never set foot in Minrathous again. But if you are what you claim, and I cannot deny I was intrigued by your letter, then perhaps it could be worth my while.”

“Varric told me of your past experiences. I read his book, the Tale of the Champion. And there have been whispers spread even here to the capital of an elf with extraordinary powers attacking slave caravans, killing the slavers without mercy but releasing the imprisoned unscathed.” Maevaris says, offering her hand to Fenris, “You want change brought about. You want liberation for those kept in servitude, and those suffering under that servitude. We have a shared goal.”

“If I am unhappy, I can leave at any time.”

“Yes.”

“And I will be paid?”

“Of course.”

“The letter said I am to be a bodyguard.” Fenris tests, “In what capacity?”

Maevaris smiles, not as kindly this time. Instead her smile is forced and weary, bearing more resemblance to a grimace.

“Walk through the streets of the city with me.” she says, “You’ll see soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took so long! I have the whole of this fic planned out, I've just been struggling to get it done around uni work and such. Hope it was worth the wait, and that the next chapter will be done soon.
> 
> As before, excluding a sprinkle of original characters, the settings and canon characters of Dragon Age do not belong to me.


End file.
